


A is for Autonomy and Absorption

by OrionLady



Series: The ABCs of Family [1]
Category: National Treasure (Movies)
Genre: A whole lot of feelings here folks, Affection, Aftermath of Violence, Also featuring Ben's repressed Dad Instinct™, Blood, Brotherhood, Devotion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Families of Choice, Featuring Riley's Converse because we all love that apparently, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Home Invasion, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, Protectiveness, Shooting, Tenderness, aka the Gates family slowly adopts a federal agent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: Ben growls, full fledged span of his teeth and all. The baring of them is primal, something animalistic that doesn’t fit on the normally vibrant man’s face. It’s a look Sadusky has seen hundreds of times. Unease. Cornered men weighing their options.Sometimes with fatal consequences.When the Gates home is attacked and leads to a mysterious standoff, only Sadusky can solve it—and hopefully snap Ben back to himself before it turns ugly. Before he shoots someone.
Series: The ABCs of Family [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643848
Comments: 23
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t believe I’m writing a piece for this in the Year of Our Lord 2020, but here we are. After watching the movies again, I had a hazy, half asleep dream sequence about this whole scenario and was like, ‘Welp…gotta write that or I’ll never know a moment’s peace.’ 
> 
> I love you all in this small (dead?) fandom! Bon apetit!

“They say I work for the angels—they never said I was one.”

~ Mark Twain, _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_

Nobody ever starts to sound like an old person overnight. They swear up and down when young that they’ll never sound like the set-in-their-ways, stodgy seniors they knew growing up but it always happens. ****

Sadusky notices this keenly in his displeasure over a practice that’s not taught as much in law enforcement circles anymore. Few people in the intelligence community are even aware of the fact, and even fewer civilians know about it. It is an advantage rarely taken these days—though Sadusky feels, strongly, that it ought to be—mostly because agents finish one case and then move on, like a Pez dispenser of broken dreams: ****

It is possible to put a flag notice on certain people relating to closed files, all the way down to the metro cop level, in the event that those people so much as steal a pack of bubble gum. ****

For certain individuals, it is a matter of professional pride. Some cases are long term-ers, there in his mind for life and mulled over on cold, lonely nights when all he has is a glass of single malt for company. ****

To be fair, Peter has completely forgotten about the tiny post-it note notice he filed with Washington PD. There’s no need for it. The case is closed in all the relevant ways, in that its primary subject is not prone to criminal acts and would put a boy scout to shame. There’s zero need for worry. ****

This becomes much less of a fun fact when a tiny red banner flashes across the top of his computer screen. ****

Sadusky is alone in the bullpen, and smugly appreciates this fact so he can eat his mustard-apple-chestnut sandwich in peace, thank you very much. He’s taken enough harassment from the team on his strange eating choices.

He’s halfway through the sandwich, feet propped up on his desk, when he notices the flashing memo. His serene chewing becomes a frown.

Suddenly, in unison, his cellphone rings at the exact moment as his desk landline.

Sadusky doesn’t jump, but he has to swallow quickly before he chokes. His feet drop to the floor so he can lean forward and grab the landline. The only reason he chooses this out of all three is because of the caller ID—

He reads it, four times, before it computes.

 _SWAT_. Washington SWAT, Unit Four, is calling him. ****

More swallowing until finally he answers the phone. “Agent Sadusky.”

The head sergeant begins talking, blurting out the whole situation, before Peter can even say his name or ask what’s wrong.

Sadusky pales. “Are you sure? That doesn’t make any sense.” ****

“ _Positive, sir. He’s not responsive._ ” ****

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

* * *

With traffic, ten minutes turns into fifteen, until finally Sadusky bites the bullet and flicks his car’s lights on. He hesitates, then switches the siren on too for good measure. ****

Finally, almost twenty minutes after he got the alert, Sadusky pulls into a long driveway and roars towards a colonial mansion sitting at the end of it. The lawn is well kept, in the Euro-American style of checker mowed grass, like conflicting nap on a velvet dress. ****

But right now the grass has been trampled underfoot by an _army_ of police cruisers, a SWAT command truck, and EMT vehicles with antsy paramedics that aren’t allowed inside. ****

They can’t gain access, for security reasons, after the officers and agents have done their jobs. Not until the threat is…is taken care of.

Just the thought of it sends Peter’s head spinning. Very little of this shows on his face, however, and he even buttons up his blazer with an unruffled sniff while wading his way into the chaotic scene.

Brownstone brick is thrown into clownish relief with all the red and blue lights bouncing off it. There’s a narrow garden strip, flower beds, ringing the front of the house. It’s neat but free looking, which says that it’s kept by a loving, amateur hand and not a professional landscaping company, like the lawn is.

Sadusky stares at a trampled tiger lily bush by the door and swallows some more.

“Agent Sadusky?” The lead sergeant, over six foot three and armed to the teeth, shakes Sadusky’s hand once he holds up his FBI badge. “Thanks for coming all the way out here. Sergeant Fielding.”

“Of course,” he replies at once. “I’m just glad you let me know.”

Fielding gives a wry head lilt. “Truthfully, we would have called you anyway, even without the required federal flag on his name. We’re a little short staffed at the moment and we need all the help we can get.”

Peter again sizes up all these high ranking personnel, all the guns for what appears—on the surface—to be such an open and shut matter. One of the two criminals is already in custody, handcuffed and being read his rights while swearing up a storm. ****

This certainly doesn’t _look_ short staffed. ****

Then Sadusky puts it together. His brows go up high, contrasted against the swoop in his belly. “You can’t get a hold of the Gates or Dr. Chase.” ****

Sergeant Fielding nods, grim. “His parents are on vacation in Boston but they’re driving back as we speak.”

“And Dr. Chase?”

For such a combat trained man, the SWAT sergeant looks antsy. Not a good sign. “She’s at a conference at the Natural History Museum in Manhattan. When we gave her the news…”

“Let me guess.” Sadusky can’t help but chuckle. “She tried to start giving orders.”

Fielding smiles. “Demanded that we send her a chopper so she could fly here directly. To land _right here_ on the lawn. I told her she could fly coach just like the rest of the world.” ****

Peter can imagine Abigail’s fiery eyes flashing, her thickened accent when she’s angry or distressed. “I bet she loved that.” ****

The sergeant doesn’t dignify that with a response, save a dark look up at the house.

“Will you let me inside?” Sadusky asks, though he already knows the answer. He’s proud of himself for even this small, professional courtesy of asking first. Especially with his pulse thundering away, tight against his shirt collar. “Your superiors filled me in over the phone.” ****

The man shakes his head. “I can’t risk it, sir. There’s a gun in play.” ****

Sadusky is surprised, for a whole myriad of reasons. He starts with the most obvious. “I’m a government agent specializing in stolen antiquities, sergeant. I know gun protocol and how to handle it just as well as you do. Get me a vest and let’s go.” ****

Fielding wavers, his tactical experience weighed against the absolutely _mind boggling_ scenario happening inside, that had been quickly sketched to Sadusky. He still doesn’t fully believe it. This has to be a gross exaggeration, for the description, the behaviour, doesn’t match what he knows of this man. ****

“Fine.” The sergeant’s gaze goes flinty, not quite covering the disquiet in his eyes. “But you let me protect you, alright? I just need someone to get through to the mess happening here.” ****

“Does the gun belong to Gates?” Peter asks, while taking a proffered vest and strapping it on.

Fielding glances again at the house, a second storey window. “No. It’s one the intruders’ automatic side arms. There was a scuffle before we got here and it went off, which is what prompted neighbours to call the police. At least two rounds were fired, maybe more. We don’t know.” ****

Sadusky follows SWAT officers inside the house. The lights are mostly off, probably an intentional, bold move if the man put up as much of a fuss as evidence suggests he did.

“He’s smart,” says Sadusky suddenly, not sure why this is important for them to be aware of but knowing deep down, in his gut, that it is. “Very smart.”

But all the sergeant does is look back over his shoulder, rifle trained forward, with a nod. “I know. Why else do you think we’re at a standstill _after_ the crime is over?” ****

There’s a strange, eerie hush while Sadusky follows the team around a trashed kitchen, splattered with the remnants of cupcake batter, and around the—also trashed—living room to a smaller staircase. Pictures are shattered, dents in drywall, glass all over the hardwood and bannister.

At a bloody bullet, buried in the wall, a chill races down Sadusky’s spine.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he insists, like he had on the phone. “This doesn’t fit with his personality or life experience.” ****

“And I’m telling you,” Fielding hisses back, “that I can’t even get paramedics in, let alone my guys.”

After that, they don’t talk much, save for whispered communication. This hadn’t just been a home invasion for valuables like electronic equipment and jewellery, Sadusky sees at once. The pattern isn’t right. It might be intrinsically motivated, but these thieves _knew_ who their targets were. Display cases of ancient Greco-Roman and Egyptian artefacts hang open by their hinges, but the contents and glass are carefully preserved. ****

Art thieves, then.

“They expected the house to be empty, probably.” Peter is struck again by the violence of the entire scene. His heart quickens, and he wishes he wasn’t in a suit and tie for this, that he would look less like an agent and more like a friend.

“That tracks,” says the sergeant, waving his men down the second floor hallway. “Dr. Chase said he was supposed to be out, an exhibit opening at the Smithsonian, but decided not to go at the last minute. Something about not getting a lot of sleep with flights overseas recently, jetlag.” ****

There’s the sound of rushing water and up ahead, spilling out of a master bathroom, a lake puddle of water gushes onto the mahogany flooring.

“The thieves burst a pipe in the wall during what looks to be a vicious fight,” Fielding explains. “It should stop soon since we turned the water system off.” ****

Then they turn a corner into the master bedroom.

And Sadusky forgets how to breathe.

It really _doesn’t_ make sense. There’s something absurd about it, like a mental image come to life where you write your friends into a cheesy horror or action flick and then laugh about it. A man stuffed into the sharp confines of a role he was never meant for.

Sadusky almost turns and walks away because he’s sure this is a hallucination, a kind of nauseating dream that’s not really a nightmare and not really something you ever feel you deserve to wake up from. ****

Then everyone in the room, all the EMTs just outside the door and police huddled by the foot of a queen bed, turn to stare at Sadusky. As if he can magically fix this.

Sadusky straightens his jacket hem, mostly for an excuse to move his hands and release some of the stressed energy. He doesn’t bull ram into the situation right away, instead taking a minute, a full sixty seconds, just to assess the scene—

One of the thieves bleeding and unconscious on the floor from a bullet wound to his stomach… ****

Lamp and family portraits knocked off the dresser… ****

Large closet, door ripped off its track, guarded by a crouching figure… ****

Renowned historian and treasure hunter Benjamin Gates with a gun in his hand and a cold glare in his eyes.

The officers are not following protocol, that someone threatening others with a gun should be neutralized before he can harm himself or others, but none of them want to take the shot if they can help it. It’s an appalling task and they’re stalling for as long as they can. ****

Sadusky _also_ notices that none of the police standing around have bothered to get down, that they are towering over the tense standoff with their fingers on the triggers. Hardly negotiator-friendly body language and they know it. ****

Peter scowls at this blatant disrespect of the trauma that’s just occurred, knocking the barrel of a nearby rifle down. “That’s enough. Have some compassion before you make this worse.” ****

Fielding twitches in protest but doesn’t say anything.

Sadusky pads quietly closer, sidestepping the injured thief, to bend down in front of Gates. One of the officers takes this as his cue to drag the unconscious perp away, handcuffing him to the gurney an EMT has lifted up the stairs. ****

Gates growls at the action, full fledged span of his teeth and all. The baring of them is primal, something animalistic that doesn’t fit on the normally vibrant man’s face. ****

 _It doesn’t make sense_ , Sadusky thinks again. _Down is up and up is down; nothing is the way it’s supposed to be_ —and now he _really_ sounds old. ****

“Ben,” says Sadusky, softly. It redirects the man’s attention, if not onto Sadusky then at least off of his attacker. “Ben, it’s okay. The fight’s over and you did great. You can stand down now.” ****

He’s mostly uninjured, aside from some scrapes across his forehead and defensive bruises on his arms, and Sadusky adds it to the growing list of surprises in this topsy turvy day. He’s soaked to the bone, wool sweater sagging off him, and his hair hangs in limp cords about his face that accent the sharp cheek bones.

The biggest concern, Sadusky’s own personal red flag, is the _huge_ level of dilation in Ben’s eyes, like he’s not really here or seeing anything. The blue is eclipsed by black iris, breaths coming fast and short. ****

Sadusky doesn’t dare get within arm’s reach, especially with the gun up but aimed at the crowd of officers for now, thankfully. Still, he shifts his weight forward, elbows pressed on his squatted knees. “It’s just me, Ben. Just you and me, for as long as you need. Okay?” ****

Ben breathes some more, those shallow pants, and doesn’t blink. The catatonia…it doesn’t fit, well, _Ben_. Sadusky scrambles to remember how many times he’s been held at gunpoint or physically attacked, if this can be linked back to some memory from his past that’s causing the flashback. ****

Then he catches it—

Ben stretches a hand behind him, the one not on the gun.

It’s a snap motion, sheer instinct, barely lasting a second before he’s back, posture forward. But Sadusky knows what he saw. ****

Sadusky glances at the dresser and a very small, very bloody hand print. There’s no gunshot evidence or wounds on Ben at all, and the odd clues begin to pile up. Ben’s hand flinches again, behind him, though his eyes stay forward. ****

“Where you right now, Ben? Where are you in your mind?” ****

Gates does a little dance on the balls of his feet, so subtle Sadusky would have missed it if he wasn’t one hundred percent locked on body cues in this moment. It’s a look he’s seen hundreds of times. Unease. Cornered men weighing their options. ****

Sometimes with fatal consequences. ****

“Stay back,” Ben barks, but there’s an undercurrent of desperation that lessens the intimidating effect he’s aiming for. A brand of hope spears straight through Sadusky’s chest. ****

 _There he is_. ****

Ben is scared. Scared, yet more than ready to switch to fury if the need arises.

It’s not fear for himself.

Understanding cracks over Sadusky’s head like a thirty pound flower pot and makes his ears ring.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sadusky asks the all important question, the one he needs the answer to more than anything else in this hell-in-a-handbasket day:
> 
> “Where is he, Ben?”
> 
> Everyone goes silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for blood, implied child abuse, and discussion of traumatic memories in this chapter!

The clues slot into place: cupcake batter, the bullet downstairs, bloody hand print much too narrow to be Ben’s, that protective mama bear look frothing across his face…

Sadusky gazes at this man, one he’s now proud to call a friend, with a small grin. They’ve been through a lot, and they’ve saved each other from a lot. He finds his heart rate going down the longer he watches Ben-not-being-Ben and the caged, fearful glint in his eye.

“I saw the cupcake batter,” Peter begins, still sotto voce and even cadenced, “and I know you can’t bake on your life. But you wanted to do something special to welcome Abigail home, am I right? And who do we know who makes the best chocolate cupcakes this side of the Hudson?”

Ben flicks the gun around, though it’s not lost on anyone that he won’t blatantly point it at Sadusky. “I know how to use this and I _will_ if you come any closer.”

“Of course you do.” Sadusky’s gentle voice works and Ben lowers the gun a few inches. “You have three degrees, Ben. I think we can all safely assume you know how to use a gun.”

“Agent Sadusky…” Fielding’s voice carries a warning.

Sadusky makes a face, holding up a warning hand. Ben goes stiff at the action, knuckles white around the gun’s pommel.

Abruptly, Sadusky realizes that this whole standoff is _exactly_ a Ben Gates thing to do, that he’s acting perfectly like himself, no matter how imagined the danger. Honour is a trademark of this family and he doesn’t disappoint, even now.

Sadusky creeps forward and finally, _finally_ , Ben’s eyes shift to him. The gun does not.

“You’re doing great, Ben.”

The SWAT sergeant huffs an exaggerated sound. “Oh for Pete’s sake, Sadusky, what are you—”

Sadusky’s eyes crackle with ire. “I am reinforcing what he needs to hear right now. This standoff isn’t about the break in, sergeant.”

“It’s not?”

“No.” Sadusky’s tone is hard. “And someone shut the door to the bathroom so he can’t hear all the water noises. Now, please.”

“What’s wrong with water noises?”

Sadusky exhales through his nose, frustrated. “He almost drowned under threat of violence, not too long ago, and so did his friend.”

“…His friend.”

“Yes.”

Ben blinks after what feels like an eternity, once the waterfall sounds mute. Years melt off his face at the action, the ancient lines of survival and pain, and his eyes skim the room.

“You’re not in the tomb, Ben,” says Sadusky for good measure. “You’re safe and there’s no water here. No attackers either. You did your job, you kept him alive.”

There’s a confused murmur and one of the officers mutters, “him?”

Sadusky ignores them all, every last bit of what’s happening behind him, to slowly, cautiously, reach out and touch Ben’s shoulder.

Ben starts, micro second fast, with the deer eyed surprise of someone who’s been round house slapped. Peter kneads into the taut muscles for a few minutes, letting Ben reacclimatize to the present, the sensations of where he actually is.

“Sadusky?” Ben asks, in a wispy voice.

Sadusky’s whole body dissolves a little, with the zing of something warm, a protective fire of his own. This is the man he knows. This is Ben Gates, with more pathos in his thumb than all the men standing behind them.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s me, Ben, it’s Peter. I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay and both attackers are in custody.”

Ben nods, still skittish.

Sadusky asks the all important question, the one he needs the answer to more than anything else in this hell-in-a-handbasket day:

“Where is he, Ben?”

Everyone goes silent.

Ben’s breathing starts to regulate, deepening and unwinding. With each inhale his panic loses speed and a flush returns to the blanched face.

“Ben…please tell me where he is. He’s been shot, hasn’t he?”

Ben blinks at Sadusky, then the gun in his hand. Sucking in a lightning, disturbed breath, Ben drops it on the floor and shoves it far away from himself.

“It’s okay now, Ben.” Sadusky’s chest aches with sympathy for his friend and all that he’s been through in the last hour alone. “They can’t hurt either of you ever again. Where is he, Ben?”

Sadusky knows perfectly well the answer to his own question, the one he’s saying out loud. But the question is not really a request for information at all.

It’s a plea for _permission_ , and though Sadusky could overpower Ben physically, psychologically it’s not even remotely an option. Autonomic decision making is what Ben needs right now.

Sadusky would sooner give up his badge than deny Ben this basic human dignity. _He_ is in charge of what happens next, not Sadusky and certainly not the police officers.

Ben is trembling in earnest now, though some of the intelligent light sparks in his eyes once more. He straightens, shoulders relaxing from their rigid curl. It makes him look human again.

“Did I kill the intruder who followed us into this room?”

Peter smiles, broad. His hand moves to the side of Ben’s neck and squeezes once. “No, Ben. I think you missed any vital organs and it was in self defence anyway.”

Ben blinks some more, a little too fast to be considered normal, and reaches up to cover the hand on his shoulder. “They were trying to kill us, because we saw their faces.”

Peter nods. “Probably, yes.”

The hard gleam has evaporated from Ben’s eyes, leaving only a timid and mistrustful expression when they land on the SWAT team. His hand again strays for the closet.

Sadusky places himself _beside_ Ben this time, so they’re facing the problem together. “Fielding. Can we get a few less bodies in here, please? There’s no need for the guns now.”

The sergeant hesitates, then shoos his men out so only the three of them and two EMTs remain. Someone has bagged the gun at some point, and Sadusky is relieved to see it gone.

“They’re not going to hurt you,” Peter reassures Ben in a low murmur. “You or…”

It’s Ben’s turn to hesitate, though Sadusky can clearly see that he consciously knows better now. He knows where he is and that he’s safe—it’s _instinct_ he’s battling this time, the shielding streak that wants to keep those he loves safe.

Peter’s voice drops to a whisper. “Ben? Can you show me where he is? He needs treatment, urgently.”

Ben nods again.

And to cap off this day full of shocks, the man’s eyes fill with tears. Sadusky’s jaw drops.

“They shot him,” Ben quavers. His tears don’t fall but the held back emotion is somehow more of a gut punch to watch. “They…they _shot_ him.”

“I’m sorry that happened.” Sadusky wrangles his own reaction under control with the fluidity of long practice. “And I’m with you for every step of this. Let’s help him together, okay?”

At last, Ben forces himself to turn around and duck into the closet.

In pushing back one of the broken sliding doors, it reveals a heap of hiking equipment stuffed into the far left corner, including a truly ginormous gear bag. It’s one of those long rectangular ones, intended to be hitched to the back of a snow mobile for cold winter treks.

Sadusky realizes what he’s seeing after a beat. It’s clever, the plan Ben must have come up with in a moment of panic, running from an aggressive intruder and trying to hide his best friend to keep him safe.

Peter wants to reach in and help, but the shake in Ben’s hands, coupled with his overwhelmed eyes, keeps him still. This is something Ben has to do by himself or they’ll never get them out of this room.

He unzips the bag.

It reveals a head of hair first, a spiky field of brunet, flecked with crimson. Ben’s hands pause for a split second and then he finishes the bag’s loop, going all the way down and pulling back the flap.

And there, eyes closed, covered chin to hoodie hem in blood, cupcake batter still splattered across his hands, breathing in wet, ricochet bursts, is Riley Poole.

As part of the Declaration theft investigation, all those years ago, Sadusky had to deep dive into the records of these two suspects— _really_ deep—and so, though he hasn’t thought about their respective pasts in years, little tidbits shoot back into Sadusky’s mind at just this sight of Riley.

He looks terribly small curled up like that, always petite and small boned for his age, especially against Ben’s tall, lanky stock. This isn’t helped by a home life that didn’t exactly feed him well growing up. Said home life is also the reason, Sadusky suspects, Ben never yells at Riley and makes sure to let him know when he’s done something worth praising.

He’s not even thirty years old yet, recruited in his first year of grad school by Gates for his tech knowledge. That story, their first meeting, is one he’s never been able to solve. It’s something weirdly private that neither man ever talks about. Peter even pried Abigail one time but she said she didn’t know either.

Ben loses his air in a high pitched rush, reaching in further to smooth back the wild hair.

“Gates?” Sadusky injects a little authority into his tone. “Sit rep?”

The trick works and Ben lists off on autopilot. “He took a round to the left shoulder, through-and-through. One of the attackers managed to shove him against the kitchen counter too so I think he might have some broken ribs.”

Ben’s eyes get shiny again. “He was complaining about each breath hurting, before he passed out.”

“And when was that?”

“Just before…” Ben shakes his head. “Just before we made it to the top of the stairs. I had to carry him the rest of the way in here. The intruders wanted to…finish what they’d started with him.”

Files can lie, Sadusky admits in this moment. You can read every single detail of someone or some situation on paper and think you have all the answers. But to see it in real life, flesh and blood…a _lot_ of blood…it changes those details, morphs them into things that have more intimate, secret names.

‘Best friend’ becomes little brother, with that hint of something else. Something that’s never said out loud in the Gates family but that Sadusky has witnessed many times.

It wasn’t there at first, when he met Ben for the first time. But now it is.

Now Ben looks down at Riley with something that can’t be called mere friendship at all. It’s there every time he and Abigail joke that they don’t need to have kids, that they already have one. It was there when Sadusky watched Ben sign medical forms on Riley’s behalf, after the Cibola fiasco barely two months back. It’s there in the hair ruffles and teaching him how to tie a tie and taking him to lectures with him to proudly show Riley off and brag about his accomplishments.

They’ve bonded in a way, these last few years, that can’t be undone.

Ben carefully slides his hand under Riley shoulders, the other under the back of his knees. This time Sadusky helps, holding the bag open so Ben can pull him out. Riley’s blood is everywhere, soaking through the bag and down onto the sleeping bags below, through Ben’s fingers and Sadusky’s sleeves.

Riley’s ratty sneakers knock together at a wonky angle once freed, and it send a strange pang through Peter’s stomach. The tech is a millionaire now, like they all are, and yet he insists on keeping every article of clothing until it falls off him, from threadbare jeans to his MIT sweater to the scuffed Converse.

“Hey,” says Ben suddenly, in a brand new tone of voice, tender, they haven’t heard from him yet today. He strokes Riley’s forehead, where it reclines against his chest, while applying pressure to the front of his shoulder using one of the towels at the back of the closet. “Hey, Riles.”

Sadusky presses another towel to the back of Poole’s shoulder and just like that, the two men are keeping him alive, plugging up the leaking of his heart. How appropriate.

He refocuses in time to see Riley’s eyes blink open, steeped with agony.

Riley doesn’t say anything for a moment and that might be because the very act of breathing is difficult right now. Not to mention his milky skin that gets a shade whiter every time they press on the bullet wound.

Then his fuzzy gaze finds Sadusky. He looks astonished to see another familiar face in this situation. “Secret…Agent Man.”

Peter laughs, despite himself and Riley’s broken glass voice. “Hello, Mr. Poole. Thought I’d drop in for some of your famous double fudge cupcakes.”

“R’ncheck.”

Sadusky winks. “Next time, then. We’re going to get you out safely, Mr. Poole. Alright? The party’s over.”

Riley’s gaze has shifted during this, onto Ben. He looks worried and scared, baffled to see Ben so distraught, as if the sun decided not to come up after millennia of doing so. Newborn lambs have more strength than he does but he still finds the energy to fist a hand in Ben’s polo.

Ben’s rearing for action at once. “What is it, Riles?”

Riley tries to speak, coughing, so Ben leans down. “I didn’t catch that.”

“In the event that I…live…”

Ben’s features twist, filled with dread. “If you’re about to give me some deathbed speech, save it, Riley. You’re not dying today. You’re not allowed, you hear? That’s an order.”

Riley does a halfway version of his signature eye roll. “N-no. You…you owe me a new…college hoodie.”

Ben’s eyes go big at the exact same time Sadusky’s do.

It’s such _normal_ behaviour, the most normal in a mile radius, at least, that it’s almost inhuman. Leave it to Riley to be the only emotionally stable person in this situation. Sadusky has half been waiting for the panic attack, the jolt of fear at seeing all these officers and their guns after having just been shot by one. But here he is, complaining about a favourite sweatshirt that got ruined.

And then Ben is off doing some bizarre hybrid of laughter and crying while rocking them both. EMTs close in and Riley pats Ben’s cheek. 

“Ok…kay, Ben. ‘M okay.”

“Yeah, Riley, we’re going to be okay.”

And for the first time, Gates looks like he believes that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That doesn’t make it your fault.”
> 
> “Like hell, it doesn’t.”
> 
> Sadusky’s volume climbs too. “Ben, he loves you.”
> 
> “Maybe he shouldn’t do that either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :)

They hit a bit of a snag when EMTs try to take Riley out of Ben’s arms. He shoves at their hands with a thunderous expression and his eyes keep flicking to all the exits. Riley is of no help whatsoever since he’s already passed out again, shivering even unconscious with blood loss and shock. It’s a miracle he’s still alive, though no one has had the guts to tell Ben that yet. Sadusky suspects he already knows.

But after a few minutes, that logical, big brain wins out and Ben relinquishes his friend—very reluctantly, mind you—so the EMTs can whisk him away. Ben insists on riding in the ambulance.

It takes a few grueling hours before Sadusky wraps up his current cases, along with giving his statement for _this_ one, and finds a discreet moment to sneak away from work.

There’s something comforting about hospitals, the greater equalizers, in that their number one priority is keeping people alive and healthy. To do that, they don’t care one lick about who those patients are or anyone else of note who might be clinging to the periphery of their care.

This is the first thing Sadusky notices upon entering the emergency room. None of the staff are whispering or hovered around the door of a particular room. Their eyes are tired yet alert, like this is a normal day.

And for them, it is.

They don’t care one iota that two-timed treasure hunter—sorry, _protector_ —Ben Gates or his famous author friend Riley Poole are currently sitting in one of the rooms, nor do they bat an eye when Sadusky flashes his badge, brown wrapped package under his arm, and asks where they are.

“He didn’t need surgery after all and while one of the broken ribs was sitting on his lung, it didn’t puncture,” says a nurse, eyes already on oxygen readouts for another patient. “They stitched him up and reset the bone but he’ll be spending the night for observation. Down the hall, second door on the right.”

“Thank you.”

Sadusky finds the scene pretty much exactly how he imagined it—Ben, now dried off in fresh clothes, slumped across one of the visitor chairs with his cheek propped on his knuckles at a wonky ankle, Riley asleep on the bed hooked up to a dizzying amount of machines but resting peacefully, evidence of Abigail’s previous presence in her coat on the wall hook and the smell of that lavender perfume.

Riley’s left shoulder is swaddled in so many bandages that it looks like he’s wearing half of a football brace under the Johnny gown. His breathing sounds better, though it’s clear he’s still in pain, even in sleep, each breath sighing out in a thin jet stream.

Ben is drifting off himself when the door creaks open. He startles to his feet, eyes again making the rounds to each exit, which is really just the window, bathroom, and the door Sadusky is currently standing in. His hands are stiff in fists at his sides.

Peter forces himself stay unruffled, to keep his arms where Ben can see them.

_Ben is still on the alert. Hospital should have noted that for anyone coming in._

Then the man seems to realize what he’s doing and comes back to himself. “Sadusky?”

“How many times have I told you? Call me Peter.” The agent smiles, showing none of this concern on his face.

Ben shakes his hand before drooping back down into his seat. “Thank you for dropping by, and for earlier.”

Sadusky pats Riley’s blanket covered shins before taking the empty chair beside Ben. “I’ve learned to be proactive and ready at a moment’s notice when it comes to you lot.”

A brief, wry look steals across Ben’s face and he concedes this with a nod.

“I’m sorry for my behaviour earlier.” Ben looks disturbed, a frown creating a divot in his forehead. “I don’t know what came over me, I just…”

“Ben?”

This continued use of his first name seems to be what makes Gates stop the self-incriminating spiral and look Sadusky in the eye.

Peter pats him too, on his jittery knee. “You have nothing to apologize for. I read the report of what happened, no matter how well you’ve tried to cover up Mitch’s actions—it hasn’t even been three months since you almost drowned, and two men tried to _kill_ you today. Your behaviour made complete sense. You were under threat and you reacted accordingly.”

“I got…lost.” A tint of colour appears along Ben’s neck, though his expression says _troubled_ more than embarrassed. “Some part of me knew where I was but it was like it didn’t matter. The sound of rushing water, the blood…”

Sadusky leans forward. “You were back in the tunnel under the city.”

Ben is quiet for a long moment. His eyes stray to Riley, then to Abigail’s scarf, draped over the coat. Something about the sapphire blue fabric darkens the conflicted gaze.

“Yeah,” he says, barely there. “It’s like I was back in the tunnel and someone was trying to murder my family all over again.”

This one doesn’t require an answer and the two men just watch the steady rise and fall of Riley’s bandaged chest, the whistle of oxygen being fed to the mask over his nose and mouth. He’s pale, with an empty blood pack sitting on the IV pole next to saline and a concoction of pain killers.

_Needed a blood transfusion after all._

“He saved my life, you know.”

Peter turns at Ben’s awed voice. It’s solemn and airy, a simultaneous and arresting combination. Sadusky mentally sifts through the report.

“At the house?” he finally asks.

“No, in the tunnel.” Ben gestures to Riley, exasperated. “He _hates_ swimming. But my leg was stuck under the door and he dove down into the water to pull me free. Can you believe that?”

Sadusky’s smile grows. “Yes, I can.”

Ben startles for a second time, eyes bigger than they shoulder be. “Why? Why would he put up with all the danger and be so loyal, when it has cost him so much?”

It’s probably meant to be a rhetorical question, and coming from any other person, Sadusky wouldn’t bother to try and respond. But this is not Gates asking a question—this is _Ben_ asking a question. And he’s not asking Sadusky the agent, he’s asking Peter the friend.

This, even more than handing over the gun, is the biggest gesture of trust between them today.

So Peter leans back, enjoying this whole moment. “Because he looks up to you, Ben.”

“Well, he shouldn’t,” says Ben, harsh, eyes angry at himself. “I nearly got him killed today! _I’m_ the one who invited him over!”

“That doesn’t make it your fault.”

“Like hell, it doesn’t.”

Sadusky’s volume climbs too. “Ben, he loves you.”

“Maybe he shouldn’t do that either.”

“Would you dare send him away?”

Flustered, Ben shakes his head. He’s no saint, but his version of an ego is reserved for academic, intellectual points and at least a sketched out understanding of how the world works—how he feels it _should_ work, and right now it’s taken a serious blow.

Stronger men than him have fallen apart from far less.

“That’s not the point,” he argues.

“I think it is.”

“You’re being an idiot, Ben.”

The two men hush, wondering if they imagined the gravelly voice. But then Sadusky gets the privilege of watching Riley’s eyelashes flutter open and his deadpan stare come to rest full force on Ben’s face.

This clearly isn’t the first time he’s woken up, as Ben is calm about it, but his eyes still light up with a mixture of guilt and delight. He immediately stretches out his hand to close it around Riley’s, careful not to disrupt any of the leads.

“Riley, what are you—”

“Let me stop you right there.” Riley pulls down the mask and then holds up his left, free index like a professor. It wobbles with impaired motor function and possibly vision issues, as his glasses are missing. “If you’re responsible for this whole attack, then I’m Lee Harvey Oswald.”

Ben’s face scrunches. “That metaphor doesn’t even make sense—”

“First off, _I_ asked if you wanted me to bake something for Abigail. So if anything, I initiated this slew of bad choices. Does that make it my fault too?”

“No, but—”

“And secondly, unless you personally invited over Thug One and Thug Two, I highly doubt all of… _this_ is your doing.” He gestures up and down at his torso.

Ben pales, swallowing at what is probably a vivid mental video of the rushed, hostile shooting. Sadusky was present at the station when Ben gave his statement, how his first choice was just to run, but then they shot Riley at point blank range—and it turned into a vicious, life and death fight. Without a weapon until he wrestled one away at the very end, Ben had thrown everything within reach and toppled anything he could to slow them down. _He_ caused most of the mess that police found.

Peter’s chest squeezes at the violence and brutality of it all, so tightly that he forgets to breathe for a second.

“I’m still sorry, Riley.”

“Shut up, Mr. Guilt Complex.”

Ben rubs his thumb over the bruised knuckles. “You’re insufferable, you know that? My life was much less complicated before I met you.”

“I love you too, Ben.” Then Riley spots Sadusky and brightens. “Secret Agent Man! Is that present for me?”

Sadusky can’t help but chuckle at the childish tone and its matching enthusiasm. He holds out the package. “I’m glad to see you’re okay. It’s only polite to bring someone in hospital a present when you visit, right?”

“Absolutely right. Ben, take notes. You never brought me a present.”

“I saved your life,” Ben points out. “Best gift of all.”

“Fair. Have I thanked you for that, by the way?”

Ben sighs. “About a hundred times while you were out of it, yes, along with various epithets over how uncomfortable nylon is on a bullet wound. No more hiking bags for a while.”

Riley doesn’t quip back, blinking off at the far wall. “They were really angry.”

“Who,” Ben asks, eyes narrowed. “The intruders?”

“Yeah. I kept thinking that while stumbling up the stairs. They were shouting and furious—but they were in _our_ house. Like we had the compunction to catch them in the act. Rude, am I right?”

Ben and Sadusky throw each other a quick look. It’s a taste of the emotional fallout they’ve both been waiting for, but not in the context either expected.

Ben leans forward with a mischievous look in his eye. “Maybe they just wanted some of your famous cupcakes.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, not sure that type of humour will go over well so soon after their traumatic experience.

But to his surprise, Riley actually laughs.

“Ha!” With a sloppy, drugged hand, Riley shoves at Ben’s hair, already a disaster from drying out without being combed. “Nice try, Mr. I-can-barely-boil-an-egg. You’re just envious of my prowess.”

“Uh huh.” Ben directs his hand to the package while checking blood pressure readings. “Open your gift, Mary Berry.”

Riley doesn’t open it in big tears and flung paper, as Sadusky expects from that kid-on-Christmas-morning gleam in his eyes. Instead, he opens it with a careful fingernail slipped under each piece of tape. Slow, careful, reverent. Hand-eye coordination is tough, with all the drugs and painkillers in his system, but he manages.

Sadusky looks to Ben for help only to see him now wearing a fond expression. Peter asks him a question with one quirked brow, if this has happened before.

“Every single time,” Ben whispers. “He likes to savour the moment.”

Sadusky doesn’t ask why, mainly because he already kind of knows the answer. It makes his throat just that little bit thicker.

“I can hear you.” Riley’s grousing turns to shocked joy when he finally unfurls the paper—without ripping it—to reveal a big swatch of red fabric. “A new MIT hoodie!”

Even Ben looks gobsmacked. “How did you buy one of those so fast? We only got here five hours ago!”

Sadusky laughs again. “I’m a top ranking federal agent and you’re asking how I got a hoodie shipped to me on the same day?”

Riley quirks his head. “Touché. My sincere thanks, agent.”

He tries to slip it on over his head, and the hospital gown, at once. Ben jumps to standing with an alarmed cry.

“Whoa! I don’t think so, Ri. There’s too many IV lines you’ll mess up.”

Riley pouts when Ben tugs the fabric away from his now mussed hair and presses the mask back over his face. “You’re no fun.”

“You’ll thank me when you don’t die of kidney failure.”

“I was shot in the _shoulder_ , Ben, not my kidney.”

Ben doesn’t waste his breath explaining the science of dehydration. It’s just as well, because Riley’s already growing drowsy from all the excitement, though he valiantly tries to keep his eyes open while Sadusky fills him in on the two perps in custody and how he personally will be overseeing their case. Riley keeps the hoodie cuddled up under one arm, since he can’t wear it.

“Ben?” Abigail pokes her head in. “They need you to sign some forms for Riley. We’ll take him home in the morning.”

“Oh, of course!” Ben looks flustered again, and the wan set of his face isn’t lost on Sadusky, how he hasn’t allowed himself to feel anything yet, still in that shock level of numb. He wonders when it will break, de-compartmentalized and processed.

“Peter!” Abigail lights up too when she sees him. At that one single reaction, Sadusky’s chest becomes a ball of static, the sensation foreign after years at this job. He stands, figuring this is his cue to leave. “I can’t thank you enough for what you did today, defending the boys since I couldn’t be there.”

And so saying, she immediately tugs him into her arms. Any reply on Sadusky’s tongue goes soaring out the window. 

It’s not one of those quick acquaintance hugs, tense arms only halfway around the person’s back. No, Abigail squeezes him tight, bony chin digging into his shoulder with a smile Sadusky can feel as well as see.

He’s not exactly sure what to do with his arms, and so he wraps them lightly around her inch by hesitant inch. She doesn’t seem uncomfortable about this in the least. Abigail even gives his shoulder blade a quick rub before stepping back.

Sadusky schools his face into something normal, as if this hasn’t completely taken him by surprise.

“It was my honour,” he says to her, an intentional word choice. “You’re good people and you don’t deserve this.”

As predicted, Ben unwinds at these words, the subtle reminder that nothing that he did was wrong or something to feel guilty about.

Then they are gone, chattering the whole trip out the door about which of them is going to have to stop by Riley’s apartment and pack an overnight bag and ‘could we pick up some cupcakes on the way?’ and ‘he’ll love the irony’ and…

Peter is confused about it all, about when he became so important to this mismatched family. He has made his living off being observant, yet he has completely missed when they started to absorb him into their circle.

“Sadusky?”

Peter pivots on his heel, hand releasing its grip on the keys in his pocket.

While bleary, Riley is wide awake. His legs don’t come all the way to the end of the bed, leaving enough room for Sadusky to sit down.

“Yes, Mr. Poole?”

Riley blinks for a second, assessing Sadusky. His breathing is laboured but even, brows drawn back, and it’s the sharpest, most alert Peter has seen him all day.

It had taken hours just to wash the blood out of his skin, in the FBI bathroom, and he’d ended up throwing the shirt away completely, a write off. The image pops into his head again, of Riley inside the bag, like Moses being sent down the Nile in a basket—and Sadusky’s gut gives a fresh twist of horror at what happened.

Then Riley sniffs. “Ben was really out of it, wasn’t he?”

Sadusky wags his head back and forth with a thinking hum. “You could say that. He was scared for your safety and wanted to make sure they couldn’t touch you. With the sound of running water, he lost where he was for a minute.”

Or two, or five, or ten minutes, but Riley doesn’t need to know these details.

But Riley is much, much more perceptive than even Ben gives him credit for. Sadusky realizes this when the man hums his own thinking sound, shrewd.

“Will you watch out for him?”

Sadusky blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Ben.” Riley’s right fist clenches in the blankets. “Will you keep an eye on him for me? Please? He gets lost in that head of his sometimes and I’m worried what all this will do to him.”

A chuffed note of amazement escapes Sadusky’s lips before he can pull it back.

Riley doesn’t laugh at all, and it sobers Peter. “Of course, Mr. Poole. I was planning on it anyway. How are _you_ doing?”

His hand comes to rest over Riley’s fist almost without permission, like it wants to and hasn’t thought to check with him first. The fist slowly uncoils.

“Physically, well, I don’t need to tell you that it _sucks_. I feel like I’ve been body checked by a Mac truck. But all that feelings stuff is good, totally cool.”

Sadusky’s lips twitch higher. “Cool.”

“Yeah, one hundred percent. A-okay. Chill, chillax, _doldrums_ level uneventful. I’m not going to go ballistic the next time I watch a movie scene with gunshots or something, no pun intended. But Ben’s kinda the flip, you know?”

“Barely a scratch on him,” Sadusky agrees, “And yet he had a flashback.”

Riley’s brows disappear almost into his hairline. “I was going to say he _lost his freaking mind_ but that works too. I know he doesn’t really need me in his life, but I need him.”

It’s an anvil of a vulnerable confession but Riley delivers it with the ease of the morning weather report. Like it’s an established fact.

“Oh, I think you’re wrong, Mr. Poole.” Sadusky looks down at his fingers, how aged and weathered they are next to Riley’s slender, dexterous ones. “Ben would fall apart without you.”

“Really?” Riley’s hopeful eyes cut Sadusky down to the quick.

“You bet, and if he hasn’t said it, I have the power to make his tax life a nightmare until he does.”

Riley settles back, eyes on the ceiling and brimming with happiness. “Awesome.”

While it is unclear whether he is talking about his permanent place in Ben’s life or Sadusky’s federal agent super powers, it causes a heavy, warm blanket of peace to settle over the room. It’s so thick and velvety that Sadusky can almost taste it. It is also the very last surprise in this day flowing over with them—that _he_ is the one who caused this weight of contentment, that he has such influence in their lives.

“Are you ever going to tell me how you and Ben met?”

A sly smirk flashes across Riley’s face, visible even behind the plastic. “Not a chance. Nice try, Secret Agent Man.”

“Worth a shot.”

“Thanks for taking care of Ben,” says Riley, and now his eyes shut for good. “I’m getting you a reindeer bundt cake mold for Christmas.”

Wrinkles around Sadusky’s eyes get deeper. “Is that so…why a cake mold?”

Riley’s expression curves into one of disbelief, as if Sadusky is insane for not knowing the answer to this. “Do you know how hard it is to find themed bundt cake molds? _Christmas_ themed no less? You’ll thank me later, I promise.”

Sadusky takes off his glasses, wiping at his eyes when they water from emotion and held back laughter.

He nearly falls clean off the bed when understanding hits a split second later—

“Did you just invite me over for Christmas dinner?”

But Riley is finally, truly, and restfully asleep. The beeps of the pulse ox slow down after a minute. The absence of pain makes him look younger, like the youth he should be.

Somehow, even after only half a day in this hospital room, the Gates family has taken over and made it their own:

Abigail’s coat, some book Ben was reading on pre-colonial India splayed face down across a chair (he’s about a third of the way through), Riley’s Green Lantern watch sitting on the bedside table that they’d clearly had to take off to scrub him down, a pair of glasses that look like Patrick’s hung from a hook on the IV pole…

Sadusky’s whole world revolves around evidence and how to interpret its silent message. A mute language that only he speaks.

Looking at all these messages, Sadusky’s expression goes suddenly soft; very, very soft. He stands, takes a big breath, and nods, affection pulling at his cheeks.

“Goodnight, Mr. Poole.”


End file.
